Have a NYC 3

by Peter Carlaftes

  The E train to Queens pulled in and I got on. The train was crowded and I had to stand. A few feet away from me I noticed an exhausted Hispanic woman, about forty, holding herself up with great effort. She was in front of an old woman who was nodding off in her seat. At the Lexington Avenue-Fifty-third street stop, the old lady toddled off and before the exhausted Hispanic woman could sit down, a 16-year-old kid with shorts that ended just below the knees slipped in and took the seat. He looked like a real arrogant prick. She was furious.

  “Wonderful! Thanks for stealing the seat, asshole!” she screamed.

  The kid started babbling in Spanish. I don’t know Spanish very well but I detected the word puta. “You motherfucker,” she screamed, spit flying everywhere, “You know what’s gonna happen now fucker?! At the next stop I’m gonna drag you off this fuckin’ train, arrest you and shove this fuckin’ badge right up your skinny faggot ass! Then I’m gonna rip your tiny balls off and shove them in your mouth!”

  Upon saying this she produced what looked like a NYC shield. Fuck, she was a cop. She then proceeded to shove the badge in the youth’s face so hard that his nose started bleeding.

  “You gonna cry faggot? Sure, start crying you little piece of shit.” He was fighting back tears, humiliated. This woman was upset. At the next stop the kid slid out of the seat and ran out the door, like the devil was trying to bite his ass. She sat down, smoothed her hair and smiled. Several other people got off next and I was able to sit right next to her, making sure my gun was well hidden. I was nervous, but in a strange way she fascinated me.

  A couple of more stops went by; she turned to look at me.

  “You a private investigator?” she asked. “You look like it.”

  “Sort of.”

  “You either are or you ain’t.”

  “Then, the answer is ‘yes.’”

  “Mr. Fuckin’ Secret Asshole,” she snapped.

  She gave off a weird vibe. We rode on in silence until we hit the Roosevelt Avenue station.

  “Wanna come?” she said. I nodded yes, we got off.

  “Where are we goin’?” I asked.

  “Shut the fuck up and come with me.”

  We walked up the stairs and got out on Seventy-fourth Street. She took my hand and almost dragged me down Roosevelt Avenue.

  “Ow! Ow! Fuck! You’re hurting my hand.” She was digging her nails into my wrist.

  “Stop whining!”

  We stopped in front of a dive with the word “Romanticos” emblazoned in purple neon. Underneath the sign was the afterthought “A gentleman’s club” in red neon script. I laughed when I saw that.

  “Romanticos? This place is a shithole!”

  She shoved me inside.

  The place smelled like cigarette smoke, grease and puke. There was a shitty little bar and there was a broken-ass stage in the back, upon which a topless broken-ass dancer was gyrating to extremely loud salsa music. Her g-string was soiled and I was close enough to see she had dirt under her fingernails. Her rat’s nest blonde hair was greasy. Watching her were three bored men who briefly glanced at us. Yeah, that’s it guys: Romanticos. Tiny black things were scurrying across the beat up linoleum floor.

  My date brought us to a table near the stage and motioned to me to sit down. I sighed and took a seat. She sat down and lit a cigarette, blowing the blue smoke into the air. It hung for a second. I checked that my sidearm was secure. I could see that the dancer was starting to get tired and limp.

  “Why are we here?” I asked.

  “I come here to relax after work. Couple of times a week. Usually by myself. I live upstairs, so it’s a short trip home.”

  The progression to decay happens too quickly. The neon clock that hung over the rat-ass-faced barmaid said it was 9:09 p.m. I was regretting my decision to talk to her on the subway.

  “Would you like something to drink?” I asked her. She shook her head no.

  “They’ll let us sit here,” she said, “I come here often. They won’t complain.”

  I decided a shot was in order and got some Maker’s Mark at the bar. When I came back, I noticed her hands fumbling under the table. Got me nervous. Real nervous.

  “What are you doing?”

  She pulled her hands from underneath the table. In her trembling fingers was a rosewood rosary, the beads worn smooth. I felt nauseous and sad. Bad images.

  “Do you pray? Do you have any religious beliefs?” she asked.

  “No, not after spending twelve years in Catholic school. That shit burned me good.”

  I described my memories to her of a nun I had as a teacher in the fifth grade: Sister Theresa. It was 1969, when the Vatican changed the nuns’ outfits because everyone had become so hip. The dresses (or habits as they were officially called) became shorter, ending right on the knees and the headgear (or wimple) was modified so that the hair was visible. Anyway, Sister Theresa was blessed with a voluptuous pneumatic body that didn’t stop and she had beautiful crimson hair that cascaded to her shoulders. I remember sitting in class daydreaming about what her bush looked like, if it matched the hair on her head—if it was a flaming triangle of a moist soul that offered eternal redemption, a maximum overdrive climax for my nascent sex cravings.

  After I finished childhood reminiscence, my companion made a quick sign of the cross. I gulped back my drink. Went up and got another.

  “Can I see the gun you’ve been carrying?” she asked when I returned.

  “I have no gun.”

  “You’re not hiding the piece very well, give it here. Let me see it or I’ll bust you. I really am a cop.”

  “I know. I saw that incident between you and the kid.”

  “Yeah, I feel bad about it. He’s my son.”

  “Bullshit. I don’t believe you.’

  She rummaged in the left hand pocket of her blazer and produced a very worn photograph. She flipped it over to me. It was the same kid, standing in front of a house. He looked a little younger, maybe it was him. She had forgotten about my gun.

  “He lives on the street. I kicked him out last year. He’s no good. Still, It hurts me. The mirror cracked. He can’t see himself no more.”

  I could see one bare tear in the corner of her right eye. It oozed out and trickled down her cheek. She allowed me to hold her hand, which made the both of us smile. After a few minutes she yanked it back and I could see her stiffen.

  “I think you better get outta here. Get the fuck out,” she whispered.

  I took her advice and walked to the door. Once outside, I saw Criselda leaning against a beat up mustang right in front of the bar. She slowly shook her head.

  “I followed you here. You and that gun were meant for trouble.”

  “Don’t worry, nothing happened.” I felt for my gun. My pockets were empty.

  “Fuck! The piece you sold me is gone. She must have taken it.” I knew I couldn’t get it back without making a scene that would end in disaster.

  At that moment I heard two short familiar pops. Gunshots. The door behind me flew open and I could hear a commotion inside Romanticos. The dancer, still topless, ran out screaming. Her face, contorted in fear, was covered in blood, an exquisite mask in the moonlight.

  “Please, please!! She shot herself! Please!” the dancer wailed at everyone, at anyone who would listen. People started to gather, several pulled out phones to call 911.

  Criselda grabbed my elbow and said in a low voice, “Just walk away with me, don’t run.”

  We made our way quickly to the corner. When we turned the corner, Cris moved in and kissed me. Salty white heat.

  “You never save them, do you Max baby?” she asked.

  “They have a choice,” I said, looking down.

  “Go. Don’t stop,” she whispered. “I’m going back. I have to tidy things up again for you. It’s my job.”

  She turned around and quickly walked away, never looking back at me, as I had hoped she would. I could hear the fading rapid click clack of her heels as she tur
ned the corner.

  I watched as the glare of the moon swallowed her.

  I watched as the night devoured the day.

  COMPASSION

  BY JOANIE HIEGER FRITZ ZOSIKE

  Nearly midnight. A knock at the door. I wasn’t expecting any visitors. “Who is it?” I hate it when people come by unannounced and generally, don’t even deign to answer.

  “It’s your neighbor, Mitchell.”

  The cast changed frequently in this old East Village tenement, but I hadn’t known of any Mitchells to pass through its halls.

  “Who?”

  “Mitchell,” the voice insisted.

  “I don’t know any Mitchell,” I said, opening the door with little hesitation.

  I grew up in Southern California. I was a welcoming fool. I couldn’t adequately defend such a cavalier attitude here in New York City, but there was no one else here to restrain me, so no defense necessary, thank goodness.

  A thin, disheveled man I didn’t recognize stood in the hallway. “Man, I have to get to the hospital immediately. I’m burning up with fever. I’m sorry. I’m very sick from AIDS.” I saw he was sweaty and shivery, and weren’t those a couple of KS lesions on his face? He stood on the cold tile floor of the hallway in his stocking feet. Well, I thought, he could be very sick. He could simply be shoeless. Or maybe he’s jonesing for dope.

  Despite my doubts, I could easily see this Mitchell of a man was suffering. I asked him in and gave him a glass of water—in a plastic cup (let’s not throw caution to the wind altogether). He sat on the edge of a folding chair in my kitchen, shivering and sniffling. I tried to stand by patiently until he was able to explain to me what the hell he wanted from a total stranger at this hour of night.

  When he calmed down a bit, I offered to call an ambulance or a friend for him. “There’s no need for you to do that,” he said. “My lover John—he lives upstairs in Apartment 5C—He’s working right now in Jersey, but if you could just lend me $21.75, I could take a cab to my own hospital near where I live in the Bronx. I’ll see you get the money right back. Tonight,” he promised.

  I was confused by the specificity of the taxi fare. Did he take taxis to the Bronx often? He didn’t look the type. And the exactness about when I would be repaid. Tonight? It’s nearly midnight. Could he have maybe meant tomorrow night?

  I was caught in a torrent of imagined dialogue. In one ear, a jaded New Yorker heckles, “You’re being hustled. In the other kinder ear, a goodwill gremlin suggests, “But who would stage such an extraordinary scene in order to extort money from a neighbor?”

  “He’s not your neighbor,” said my auntie in California.

  “He’s not being totally honest,” said my alter ego, who doesn’t want to think the worst of him, and yet the story was, well . . . a little absurd.

  “He’s a junkie,” said the sour New Yorker with an all-knowing hiss.

  Meanwhile, the face of every friend who lived with or had died of AIDS paraded in front of me. “Can’t you see the KS lesions? Can’t you see he’s got the AIDS face? Didn’t you notice he has the AIDS ass? He’s shivering. He’s sweating. He’s shaking. He can barely stand. Look how thin he is!” They continued parading before me with questioning faces, and they held up a sign bearing a single word: Compassion.

  Enough already! Bunch of Jewish mothers.

  I gave Mitchell the $21.75. Then I gave him an additional $20.25 for good measure.

  “Oh, my God! Thank you . . . thank you . . . don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. It’s okay.”

  “No, really. I promise, you’ll get your money back. You’ll see.”

  I ignored the flutter. I just wanted him to leave and get well.

  To be neighborly, I hung out with him until he pulled himself together enough for the long trip uptown. The whole time he regaled me with details of his difficult life. I nodded, “Uh-huh, uh-huh, uhhuh,” thinking about a very late dinner and the comfortably numbing television fest to follow. Then my mind wandered farther afield.

  I found myself hoping, perversely, the guy was truly critically ill. I yearned for him to keep burning up with fever; maybe even get worse, until he absolutely had to get to the hospital immediately. I preferred to see this unfortunate stranger in desperate straits rather than face the possibility that he was a fraud.

  “It’s okay, Mitchell. You’ll get better. Things’ll get better. Maybe you’ll be the one doing me the favor next time.”

  On the other hand, perhaps what he really needed were his shoes to walk home to the Bronx. I imagined he came downtown to cop and was given an ultimatum. First he had to buy those selfsame shoes back from the dude above me on the fourth floor, the dealer who kicked his sorry butt downstairs with brutal threats: “I’m keeping your shoes right here till you get that bread, motherfucker.”

  In my mind’s beta reel, I heard poor Mitchell being shoved up against the wall. “I don’t care if you go door (SLAP) by (SLAP) door (SLAP) to every apartment in this fucking (SLAP) build (SLAP) ing (SLAP). I don’t care if you rob the corner (SLAP) deli (SLAP) or pick (SLAP) pocket (SLAP) some yuppie (SLAP) cocksucker (SLAP) going to a club on the Bowery (SLAP). Get me my money any way you can, faggot (SLAP), and do it quick (SLAP)—or else.”

  What kind of a scene did my mind need to write for him that would elicit my belief in him? And would it still be possible for me to emerge from this scene as an exemplary sister of human kindness? As “she who took the stranger into her home, despite his being a carrier of the dreaded plague . . . and possibly a weapon?”

  Would I be cast as “The She,” a beautiful, beneficent angel who gave him water, money and succor; who held him gingerly to her shoulder as he wept . . .

  “I mean after all, Mitchell, who do we human beings have if we don’t have each other?”

  In order for this poor unfortunate man to be worthy of my selfless words of compassion, it seemed I had to condemn him to a dreadful disease or stultifying addiction—and force him to get bitch-slapped. It didn’t matter to me, as I long as I came out smelling like a keeper of the roses rather than the archangel of condemnation.

  I grew disgusted with myself. Obviously the guy was suffering, but that didn’t necessarily make me a better person because I was reluctantly being nice to him. . . . Honestly. . . . I used to believe that caring for one’s fellow human being was not foolhardy, that a communitarian impulse could be trusted without cynical afterthought or the need for recognition. Then why, in the pit of my stomach, was there still a cauldron of cold rage and fear—fear that I’d been taken for a naïve creampuff?

  “Thank you, thank you so much. I’ll never forget you.”

  Oh, so what if I was being deceived! Should that henceforth impede my natural impulse to be kind and open? Would it ultimately reduce my intelligence if I was, indeed, a bit of a giving fool?

  “Really, it’s cool. Just get better real soon.”

  “I will, I promise you, I will.”

  “Good,” I said it and I meant it. . I blinked back tears and opened the door.

  “Just . . . ” he said, turning toward me before he departed. “Can you do me one last favor?”

  Okay, I thought. Here we go. Is he going to pull a gun on me? Call up to his junkie buddies on the fourth floor to come on down and rip off my threadbare apartment? Is this the part where he turns into an alien?

  “Wha’ . . . ” I stammered, confused by my feverish ruminations. I gulped for air. “What?”

  “Can I come back and see you when I’m better?” Mitchell asked sweetly.

  In that moment, I was convinced that it really didn’t matter whether Mitchell was a person living with AIDS or some poor bastard strung out on bad drugs—or both. In truth, it matters very little to whom you are kind. It simply matters that you are kind—and that you make a practice of giving with an undivided heart.

  That’s the key . . . undivided. The practice is the giving of loving-kindness. Allowing in your mind that loving-kin
dness still exists in this world.

  Even if you live in New York City.

  A PARK BENCH FOR TWO

  BY PAUL SOHAR

  An elderly gentleman in a raincoat, rather short but not bent in the back, enters Central Park from West Seventy-second Street. On his way to the plaza he sits down on a bench with a copy of The New York Times in his lap. The other end of the bench is already occupied by a young man wearing a pinstripe suit and a lavender Hello Kitty T-shirt. His legs are spread out in front and his arms are on the back of the bench, leaving little room for the newcomer. Although green is beginning to enliven the trees, it’s a cloudy and coolish day, not ideal park weather. The usual parade of nannies with kids and strollers is not on. A quiet spot in a noisy city. Five minutes pass before the young man speaks without looking at his bench mate.

  “Anything exciting in the paper?”

  Silence. The traffic noise of Central Park West seems to come from another city in another land. The taxis honk, the buses buzz as they lumber out into the flow of cars, but these distant sounds have nothing to do with the park bench.

  Finally the elderly gentlemen pipes up.

  “It depends on what excites you.”

  First the young man nods to the park in general before he turns to face his bench partner.

  “Anything more about the Incredible Shrinking Man?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It was all over the news a couple of days ago. It seems, every morning this oldish gent, a frightened looking little geezer with a lot to worry about, he makes his appearance in a different corner of Central Park, dressed in nothing but a dirty old T-shirt and a pair of sneakers. And then he proceeds, with sincere earnestness, to display his shrinking part to every passerby, explaining how big it was in the arms of the night and even tries teasing it back to life. Didn’t you read about it?”